


Always good enough

by korik



Series: Speak Without Words [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Biracial Character, Drabble, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Grinding, Lube, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Spooning, Touch-Starved, Touching, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 09:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4299597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My Inquisitor again with the Commander (with an attempted head nod to his bisexuality). They have their own ways of making love.</p>
<p>More of my struggle trying to write an asexual (non-sex repulsed), physically hypersensitive, and ASMR experiencing individual, but more from the other side of things. They've had a little time to work out how to come together in a satisfying way, and I'm sure they'll keep working at it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always good enough

He ruts against the corded, oil slicked inner flesh of her thighs, choking softly against the olive skin of her neck for cleansing air. He grasps, drags his burning fingers and palms across her sparse breasts, thumbs smoothing over the swell of her darkened nipples with the trembling to guide him, pinky fingers curling against the ripple of her ribs. The commander knows he isn't choking air from her in turn, the moans too soft, too broken in the knotwork of her reality to be agony she doesn't crave for herself.

She isn't built like most, well, really like _ any _ woman he's seen naked, fondled even less. A glimmer of memory, holed up in the dark, musty barracks, finding solace in other Templar recruits with their addled fingers and lonesome pleadings because what do you have left to give when there is nothing left to you? He's always desperate, trying to forget more as the years turn on until the walls close in and all he tastes is rage, hot ash in his mouth, and he pushes them away. He's glad for those days to be memories.

Truth be told, while his sweaty hips grind his length against the flesh of her arched backside, undulating in turn and pressing the lips of her faint, moist sex against his pulsing own, he's seen so few altogether he's almost embarrassed, feeling like less of a man. Imagine his shock, even with inexperience, that she gave such little weight to it, and once more he spares a moment even though that conversation is some time gone to dust to wonder why he had bothered so to judge - what did it mean, in the end, anyway? One partner or two hundred? She  _ enjoys _ his fingers, clumsy demons that they are, finds delight in his hesitancy, reverence, how he seems to unfold, piece by piece, in her tenure, and kisses him like the sun is never fit to rise again. She expresses what he seems unable to portray, he wanting, she the image of want, and where she alights on his surface, wildfires course in her wake with electricity pulling his nerves taut to luminous wires stretching for the heavens.

She clenches, squeezing him, the sigh falling from her mouth heavy and bewitched by her  _ need _ for their shared handling while his mind ceases to be.

Methodically crazed, his lips part, sucking in air like the dying, slathering kisses up her bicep, forgetting what it was he was doing with his hands as she threads her fingers through the mess of his hair, twirling tight the golden strands he tries so hard to sway. Breathe, breathe.

Curly.

Knuckles.

The names suit them.

He recalls stark disbelief upon hearing the story, citing the heat and panic of the moment as they struggled to reach Haven in what felt like years ago - but when had Cassandra ever exaggerated to such an extent? 'She refuses even a blade, I'd call her masochistic if not mad entirely, particularly for a  _ mage _ .'

And prisoner, accused, subject to those around her, "I'd ask if one of your parents was a dwarf, maybe a blasted elf, Knuckles - ", she only persisted, observed, slipping in when unnoticed, inserting herself to be useful. But the Mark, the Mark at first with its eerie light that now casts wavering shadows over the stone walls in the dark as though someone has turned phosphorous color on a fountain, had forced all that to fade – and she seemed to know before they, seemed to believe it was  _ necessary _ before Haven fell. There had been more than one private conversation where  _ arrogance  _ and  _ assumption _ was discussed, the other three huddled with him around the burning flames, and he nursing in private the blistering ache of thinking she had nearly frozen to death for nothing.

He cries out into her shoulder, seizing up and entwining each part of himself as close as he can, all loud and soft as his tries to bury his voice in her skin. Instinct tears his mouth wide and his teeth graze.

Cullen feels no desire to open his eyes, to see what he can smell, know by fervent acquaintance as he forgets the arrangement, the ratio of his limbs to hers. Waves are his existence, the dull roar in his ears thudding so like his heartbeat. He comes to, however, brain teasing at him about _something_ -

Valen is humming, low, spine-teasing voice, richer now in the aftermath of the lights exploding behind his eyes. Her voice, her words, they flicker against the only ear that may be able to hear - “You are so beautiful.”

He finds it easier to feign deafness, but cannot help kissing her neck, fingers sliding up her chest to turn her head, turn her mouth so that he can lose himself again in the dream constructed of her kisses, murmuring her name like a prayer.

 


End file.
